This Is Not a Poem

These are scars within my heart And tearless ducts on a face devoid of expression. It is an obsolete manual in ancient hands, Hands embracing the bends of a twisted reality A reality no longer conforming to the commands Of an obsolete manual. These commands logged off Seek to amend deeds undone by the emotional impasse. I am an agitated spectator of an awkward circus Circus amidst this fracas of redeemed souls Souls sold low by The dollar value Dollar love Dollar worship! I am a brother of a brother whose brother Never stopped loving The lovely cocoons of imitation. Imitation without reciprocal comprehension of the concepts The heart bit of earth centralized, Till originality is taxed by an imitated formulae, Formulae which rejoice in the rejection of the vernacular When dawn comes, We will already be down.